Time of the Poet!- Poet Priyatosh Das.


MP–   Image may contain: one or more people and closeupMiomboPublishing  is a cross  country  , cross regional  , cross continental  and  cross global  journal . We know  no geo-politics , race , gender ,color   or affiliation  . We respect  the art  curved  in  word  and the word scribbled in  art.  In this   special poetry  blog journal , we bring you an internationally acclaimed poet  from  India Poet Priyatosh Das . A poet  whose verse is  nerve cuddling and  mind caressing . His  verbal prowess and poetic dexterity  is    amazing .We just thought to  feature a dose of his   soul  rending verse.

Sing along  as he also  delves into  nature  with his  inspiring poem, THE WOODS. Continue  to follow our blog -journal , bring us  more likes and  comments , contact  us at miombopublishing@gmail.com.

 

A FEW LINES TO A FRIEND FROM A FRIEND OF INDIA,A WONDERFUL LAND.
( Dedicated to my Philosopher and Writer Friend of Pakistan Jawaid Siddiq)
-Priyatosh Das,Karimganj,Assam,INDIA.

 

Map of Karimganj, Assam 788710, India
I wish to meet my friend there,
There in Karachi my friend lives,
My friend is a my well wisher,my friend is a philosopher great.
………………………………………………
I wish to go there,there in Pakistan
To meet my great philosopher friend there,
He lives far away from me
And yet I feel his glowing presence around me everywhere.
Here on the bank of Kushiara(A river along the Indo-Bangladesh Border at Karimganj district of the state Assam,INDIA)
I sit and think getting lost in pensive mood
With fleeting mind to meet my friend and
Partake of few words,words of pleasure and pain.
Had I the wings of a kite that soar high in the sky and fly away hundreds of miles
And meet my great friend there crossing all barriers
Of political tussle and war.
I wish to go there in Karachi and walk a mile
Holding hand of my stranger friend,
Who has enormous heart big and great.
He will hail me thousands of time
He will care of my well and woes
If I travel there ,this is the belief I hold in heart,
We will meet and write a history of friendship
Sitting there together being reclined in a coffee house,
War and bloodshed cannot win anybody’s heart
It can only brings our ruin.
India-Pakistan tussle needs to be resolved
With the enigmatic power of love and words.
Human life is a divine wonder,we should live
Life with happiness and peace.
All war can end with the enigmatic power of a loving kiss.
N.B.It may be mentioned that Jawaid Siddiq is my fb friend.We like each other very much.

 

THE WOODS
-PRIYATOSH DAS,ASSAM (INDIA).

 


Behold! Behold ! the woods
Dark and deep,
Peace of mind it can give;
It can give you boundless beauty and delight
Of heavenly serenity and bliss
Innocent beauty and verdancy it hold
Enough to fill every love-lorn heart
With the passion of celestial love.
Behold! Behold ! the lovely woods
Blooming (wild )blossoms floating high and low in it’s breast-
Waving in the midst of ethereal breeze.
Nuisance of the city life,
Smoky air and sleepless night,
You will not feel their presence here
That can rob peace of mind
Innocent beauty of heart and delight.
Behold ! Behold ! the solitary woods
Glowing bright under the scorching Sun,
Flower red,flower white and of purple,yellowish,pink-
Floating over the vales and woods
Bewitches every passionate passer-by.
Mellifluous music of every song bird
Give me boundless charms,
I wonder why human being uselessly cause them harm.
They are the beauty of the deep,dense bleak woods.
Nestled and cared by the unbounded hill,
They don’t cause us harm,they give us boundless charms
With touching beauty and verdure.
Oh! How splendour beauty and vivacity
Surrounds over the vales and woods
Every passing moment here blessed with divinity.
I wish to mingle,
I wish to get lost-
In it’s boundless beauty and vibrancy
Filled with ethereal fragrance and delicacy.
N.B.Copyright reserved@IndianEnglishPoet P.Das.

 

Image may contain: 1 person   Poet Priyatosh Das is  from Assam,INDIA. He is  a Practicing poet,Writer,Blogger ,Freelance journalist and   a philanthropist. He aspires to be a great literary legend.He  loves to serve the suffering humanity through  his verse and voice.https://twitter.com/poetpriyatosh,   https://www.facebook.com/priyatosh.das.3367. Readers , Poets  and   others  can contact  the Poet  at Priyatosh.poet@gmail.com.

The Patriot in a Poet-NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA


MPImage may contain: one or more people and closeupDear reader on this special poetry blog diary  we   feature   one  powerful wordsmith NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA with her two  poems  which   are  nerve wrecking  and   with  braveness touch  on   the political  and  social  fontanels of our world today.  In the poem  MADE  IN  BARRACKS the poet  shares her  dose  of  patriotism while  she   caps her  satire  with  subject  matter of  national identity  . The poet is  a strong  force  to  rely on ,  she  is widely  published across the world in   numerous collections , e-zines and e-publications.

Sing along with the poet   as  she sings Brexit O Brexit   and Made  in the Barracks.

We invite your comments and likes on our posted blogs .  We  also   looking forward for  for your opinions and suggestions  on how to grow our blog journal . Contact us at   miombopublishing@gmail.com.

 

BREXIT O BREXIT.

Though life is bit by bit
Falling into an enemy’s pit
Is a total misfit
Because a bandit
Can cook a titbit
For the blood we knit
Not to flow but quit,
Then that, which we did inherit
Would be an exhibit
In order to limit
Where we inhabit
For our permit
To lose its merit,
So that when they hit
From wherever they sit
They can yell BREXIT O BREXIT

 

MADE IN THE BARRACKS
I am an eagle
The offspring of my nation,
I conquer the jungle
And defeat colonies,
I was made in the barracks.

I am a dove
I keep peace,
The passion of my mother
The mission of my father.

The blood of service
The bone of commitment,
The mind of patriotism
An oath of loyalty,
Gallant and vigilant
Young and enthusiastic,
I am made in the barracks.

Dad is here with Mum
Brother is here with sister,
Uncle is here with aunt
Nephew is here with niece,
Cousin is here with relative
A family, our nation
We are one big people;
Made In The Barracks.

FROM NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHA…FRIEND OF
THE BARRACK CHILDREN

 NGOZI OLIVIA OSUOHAImage may contain: 1 person  is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing.

 

Grandson of Achebe-Fubaraibi Benstowe !


Fubaraibi Benstowe Image may contain: 1 person  was born in 1991 in Bonny Kingdom, Rivers State Nigeria and attended the Niger Delta University in Bayelsa State Nigeria where he obtained bachelor Degree in Electrical/Electronic Engineering. His poetry works has been published in the Nigeria/South-Korea Poetry anthology, Mariner ANA Bayelsa State literary Magazine and other publications. In 2014 he was a guest poet in the Ake Art and Book festival in Abeokuta, Ogun State.Fubara was listed as top ten finalists in the Africa-wide BN Poetry Award in 2014 based in Uganda, and in 2016 was long listed for the same award. In 2013 he was a recipient of the Certificate of Excellence from the Girl Child Creativity concept of Zimbabwe in Collaboration with the Society of Young Nigerian Writers.

 

Orukoro Dancer                                                                                                                                                                                  

“Child, weep not

Mother will be fine”

 

Still Tonye’s voice went out

Surpassing the rolling drums

To win mother’s attention,

Her hands stretched forth

Forcing body through dense crowd

To mar mother’s drunken steps,

She, solitary Lass, soaked with her tears,

Weaved a cry:

“Mother! Mother!

What have they done to you mother!?

It’s me your daughter!

Come! Come homeward!”

But all were health tips for pigs.

 

Dancer, canoe to the unseen paddler

Dancer, slave to the spiritual native banter

Feet, chalk-patterned by her painter

Body, clad with white and red George-wrapper,

Danced forward, danced backward,

Danced drummers-ward, danced viewers-ward,

Danced, Shell to her marine partner

Danced she, beats after beats, songs after songs,

Swung, palm leaves at wind’s gate.

Ah! Several fresh eggs went lost to her belly.

Then I replaced the soil on my soles with another

Weaving pity in my heart

Pity for viewers, lost in spirit’s huddle

Spirits who seek for more canoes to paddle.

 

Note:Orukoro dancers are women (most times men) who dance to certain drumbeats under the influence of a marine spirit, at these times, songs and drums are played for them by members of their Orukoro society. Viewers usually come out in their numbers to witness the dance-steps and drumbeats. This experience does not happen frequently, but occasionally.

The word Orukoro means the coming down of a deity, but in this case it is usually the marine deity that possesses a person.

The Orukoro societies are worshippers of marine deities in many Ijaw communities in Bayelsa, Delta and Rivers States of Nigeria.

 

Mob Justice

 

Now you shine your teeth

At the unbroken wailings of your victims

Whose pleadings are nothing but rolling balls

Rebounding like vacuums’ echoes.

 

Now in your noisy courts

You pass verdicts according to laws

Written in your eyes,

On your scratchy fingers,

Inpatient Mobs.

 

Tell me

Must these necks be heavy laden

With snail shells that rings and dangles?

Or, mud-coated bodies strip-dance

With whips and woof-sound mockeries?

Must these heads be heavy loaded?

With yams caught them tapping?

And stagger street to street like drunken old men?

 

Their skin is set aflame

In the midst of your tyres

In the midst of gazing crowds,

The life no man can mould,

Now quench under your ruthless finger.  

 

             

Billions heaped for next tomorrow’s Children

You watch

City Bridge funds kicked into money houses,

You scream.

Before your eyes

Genocide springs under ambush of pen-bandits

While the graves welcome those who come

In the name of chronic hunger.

The unlucky are arraigned for fair hearing

As Men arguer deeply before the judge

You watch, you read, then you wait.

 

Executioners

Tell me, where is the equality of man?

The sound of gavels visiting the high and low.

 

I DARE NOT SPIT ON YOUR GRAVES

 

I dare not spit on your graves

Even if my mouth be filled with saliva

Or, at lightless time when no eye sees me,

I dare not spit on your graves

Even as my eyes still drip rain

And heart bleeds at the utterance of that history.

Ah! The future is a fisherman’s net

We cannot tell the number of fishes it will gather,

If you had known, I’m sure, very sure

You wouldn’t had hid ours under the rug

And trade with another’s tongue.

 

See! The rays of slave era has long been gone

Yet your flaws still stand strong

On the soil of enlighten descendents.

I dare not spit on your graves

…cos in our hands I have found

The feeds that enrich your flaws

And apathy that mutilates our pride,

I dare not spit on your graves

But pray fervently for Ibani clan

And those that sit on her chairs. 

 

 

The Flood

Fellows,

We too have danced to this painful throb

Shed rain, sweat and blood,

Some paddled through farmlands

Only to watch green sweat

Slouch to ocean sides,

Some groped in liquid darkness

Wrestling the Wilds with fears and qualms

But water is water, and land is land

He who must follow breath’s path

Must leave the beds for the crabs.

 

Now the flag is white

And we have returned home

When canoes no longer sail through sitting rooms

Or Crabs sleep in cooking pots, fireless,

When Crocodiles no longer landlord our quarters

Forcing men to seek asylum in shabby camps

When Fishes no longer perch on trees

Or Oysters sit on easy-chairs.

 

We have returned happily

Like men whose net has befriend a kingfish.

 

But all the gold have gone, who took them?

“Go ask the flood,

Maybe they were stolen to Cameroon,” they answered,

Ah! Do gold now float on water,

That it be stolen by ebbing flood?

“Maybe they did, just ask the flood”

Cheih! Fellows, wouldn’t it sound insane if I ask the flood

Who stole my gold and left my plastics intact?

 

I pray thee let Love lead our steps.

 

The Poet  can be reached at the following-https://www.facebook.com/benfubi,

benfubi@gmail.com.

 

We continue to call for refreshing   articles , news , poetry and stories . Miombo can be reached at miombopublishing@gmail.com. Feel free to send comments  , follow our blog journal and kindly  like our articles.

 

 

 

Time of the Poet – Edward Dzonze!


MP– Edward Dzonze  calls  himself Nameless Radio Station ,NRS. The fast growing  poet is a  powerful wordslanger and his  verses are   blood storming and heartrending.His well   razor -sharpened  satire and wasp sting metaphor   both pricks and caress  the reader  up to the marrow. Dzonze  have also delved into publishing  and has become  an Editor  and Publisher of international  Acclaim. The Poet has  coordinated , compiled  and  published  a number  of  African and Zimbabwean Poetry Collections . His poetry  is  also widely featured  in Zimbabwean , African and global  journals .

In this  special blog  , we feature two of his best poems.

INTROSPECTION

Introspection
I need a broom
Bigger than my imagination
To wipe away the dirt that have accumulated in my mind,
The dirt I have seen
And gave a little thought about ,
Ignored until I could take it no more
I need a broom bigger than the one in your room
I need it before noon, I need it soon
In fact I need it now
Yes, now…

I’m almost drowning in a pool of own tears
As I write, a decent life is out of sight
I wake up to mourn the life I used to dream of
But those tears mean nothing to me
Crying has become a melody to my ego
Somebody help me I’m lost
How can I divorce the ego and remain with the self
I need a broom before I lose myself to the dirt

The buzzing of flies
Is music in this room
I’m roaming the maze blindfolded
With my own hands I made the fold
Because my eyes could not see through the haze
Can you see how much dirt is in my mind?
I’m lost in so many ways
I long to wave back
To a life looking back at me through the mirror
I need a broom before I lose myself to the dirt

I need a broom
That will not wipe me out for doom
A broom with bristles a hundred fold
My fingers and toes combined ,
A broom probably unseen and yet known
A broom within yet buried among the dirt
A broom long consumed by the dead
A broom whose bristles
Can talk me off the dirt in a whisper ,
Wipe the shiny surface of a mirror before me
With all the dirt gone, as you shall sure see
I can wave back
To that life looking back at me,
I know I will smile back
To my own life when it winks at me .

 

LOSING MYSELF TO A DREAM
I’m groping in the darkness
They say there is light at the end of the tunnel
I’m running towards an end
Out of sight but not out of mind
Unfathomably so ,I’m walking with indefatigable zest ,
Stalking a dream that left no trail in my memory
I’m hopping where my other foot fails me,
I’m crawling where the terrain plays tough on my feet
I’m losing myself to dream
A dream that wake me up to far horizons

To dare the gloom
I made my mind the moon
I would rather wander the maze
Than lose the journey to the haze
To walk the slope
I inclined my mental zest to the steepness of gradients
Am I the ultimate fool
For taking the road I cannot locate on a radar?
Or does it matter to locate myself
In a journey where I am losing myself to a dream,
A dream that woke me up to distant horizons

Through the rift and valleys of the jungle
I keep telling myself-
Only a spark of light
Will shame the longevity of it’s lack thereof
And this darkness will be penned into a poetry verse
Just as I keep telling many
I would rather wander the maze
Than lose the journey to the haze
After all, this darkness is a passing phase,
It’s a page in a book to be read
It’s the hopping where my other foot fails me;
It’s the crawling, where the turf plays tough on my feet
It’s the groping, the limping ,the labored walks and runs
That turns the fervid into vivid
Just as night gives way to morning light at dawn
A new day will be born someday

A note  from Edward DZONZE-the POETLosing myself to a dream is a poem about the journey of a writer who is driven more by a passion.Its about the few highs and many lows writers endure to deliver what the readers enjoy the most.I hope it will inspire many writers in their literary journey.

We call for  your poetry and stories or any writers/artistic news from readers who are writers and readers  interested  in writing. Email  us at  miombopublishing@gmail.com. Continue to follow our  blog journal  , send your comments and like/join our Facebook  groups.

Deadline-Residency: 7th FEMRITE Regional Residency


Deadline: July 15, 2017.

FEMRITE announces calls for its 7th FEMRITE Regional Residency for African women writers, to be held in Kampala. Karavan, a quarterly Swedish literary magazine, will also co-host the residency. A women’s biggest challenge has always been a lack of space and time to write. FEMRITE seeks to provide space for women to write, to promote intercultural literary discourse, to find new literary voices, and to celebrate African women’s literature.

Only African women working on a fiction or memoir manuscript, written in English, qualify to apply for the residency. Also, applicants should live in an African country and have not published more than one book. Send a 5,000 words maximum extra from the manuscript you intend to work on during the residency. Also, include a 3,000 words minimum short story for publication in the FEMRITE Regional Residency anthology. Same, include a 500-words bio and a passport photograph.

Send these above documents as Microsoft Word files to info@femrite.org and cc info.femrite@gmail.com. Please, do not send illustrations. FEMRITE and Karavan will select 10 women to take part in the 10-day writing residency that will occur in February 2018. FEMRITE will notify successful applicants by August 30. Selected writers will rework their submitted manuscript during the FEMRITE Regional Residency.

The residency covers your airfare, accomodation, and meals for the period of the residency. The inaugural residency took place in 2008, funded by Africalia Belgium and Commonwealth Foundation. And since the second installment, Karavan, Swedish Institute, and the African Women Development Fund have helped fund the residency.

republished by Mbizo Chirasha,

adapted from AfricaLiteraryMagazines site,http://africanliterarymagazines.singlestory.org/residency-7th-femrite-regional-residency/

 

When a Poet is blessed with Royal Blood- Katerere!


MPyour Profile Photo, Image may contain: one or more people  We are very much grateful   for this  encouraging opportunity  to feature one of  the most revered WordSmith to be born in Zimbabwe . Anesu Katerere is  a promising   , rising   literary arts voice  in  this land  of  paradoxical epochs . The flavor of his metaphor , imagery , razor sharp irony  and  his double edged sword of paradox  is heartening and amazing. The sweetness and bitterness in his   both  expression and presentation make him  a promising literary icon, that is if  he maintains the discipline and  the resilience as required  in  this our creative writing feild. The poet never ceases to amaze  ,like royalty  that courses in his Katerere , Hwesa Masango blood– the poet delves into a myriad of thematic areas that include sexism  , politics , culture , humor and pain. His works also  touch his life experiences. Miombo always brings to its readers writings from both young , middle and established writers and poets. The Poet is a force to reckon  in the Zimbabwean underground  poetry activism and  he  has won  a number of slam poetry prizes . Enjoy the mesmerizing verses of Hwesa Masango aka Anesu Katerere- The Guerrilla Poet.

The publishers of this journal can be contacted at  miombopublishing@gmail.com. You are free to send comments ,  follow us and like both our articles , features and the site itself.

 

 TOY SOLDIER.

You use things that once might have been clothes

To chase away the cold

You drink smoke and have been to prison

Thou you are only twelve years old

Taking that car radio

Cause the big boys say to eat you have to be bold

Your poor mother her death your birth

Such suffering she never foretold

Forever being the unscrubbed madman’s shit in a bourgeois toilet that

The world will always scold

Rise up your blunt sword little soldier for your destiny only you can mould

MINDS

Stride into kitchen

Table so laden with food so much

That I can not see across

Open fridge and throw away heavy liver to good Labrador

Wife enters

Phone sings

A nobody who wants to ask for money

Must take twins to yoga class

Remote open Mahogany

Mind soul search between bmw and convertible

As I reverse into

……………………………………………

Fore man’s one ton kick tears me apart from this

He spits and says

‘Hey you son of nobody who do you want to load the

The cement in the the truck for you?

      Dedicated to   Ms Ruby Mataure the mother of Alice; Ruth and the late
Jasper

0

.       WOMB OF FREEDOM

I can even imagine the sweet honey tears

That dripped from your eyes

When he burst from your womb

For during those chained it was a marriage breaking

Curse for a woman to produce only female fruit.

It was sad you were destined to love him more

He had his first school lesson wearing oversized Christmas

Present pajamas

For since you stayed at St. David’s he deserted

His morning porridge to force himself into sub A class

Demanding to sit next   to his sister Ruth

I know the anxious nights were fewer when Ruth

Fifteen and feigning innocence disappeared one Sunday church

Morning

Farewell letter neatly tucked under pillow

To join the bloodshot unkempt beret and farada wearing boys and girls

In the bush

Ruth a rebel

Afros and shortenened skirts

Always arriving home long after dark

Immune to the strapped tree branches lashes

And knuckle pummelts

But when the anti terrorist special branch unsmiling

Squad knocked again at N3A

Something inside you broke forever

Even up to know as I reconstruct your face

In your mind I see the crack even through your thick reading specs

I understand

For he was only in his first

Year of high school.

It’s sad how many love to clasp earth’s greatest gift of creation

So tenderly to their breast

For the law of the soil is that children come through you

But are not from you.

Moments behind the mind are forever.

It’s been many rain seasons

Since Ruth returned

Clean shaven demob notes neatly tucked in grey

Caudrauy jacket

Holding two chubby baby boys

No more Ruth but now

‘Lee Tichatonga’

It’s been many rain seasons

But I know you still pretend to lock

The kitchen door when you lay down every night

For you hope to be awakened

One night by the noisy cobble of

His clumsy boots marching into the veranda

15children on night market

Razor edged winter cold

Deep in silence

Small hands unclosed

Clasping and unclasping

Well dealt notes

Printed with national face

Eyes tufting here and there

Deep in silence

. STREET PALIAMENT

Another vehicle up in smoke

Blood leaflets and splintered glass

Projections of the future haunted by the past

The speaker.   Fresh From another long detention spell

Calls for silence, lights a Molotov from

His weed stub

Another honourable yawns disinterestedly

And shuffles towards the bar and orders a people subsidized viceroy

Blinding his ears to the soft pitter patter of the birth of

Another toyitoyi fermenting from underneath

.ON THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY  OF OUR SILENCE

Each cow hoof echoes along the well worn

Path

Each clink the entrance into the earth of another blameless

Innocent soul.

Mothers hidden along plasticized fires in deserted

Pole and dagga huts

Shedding dry tears for children who might never tread the path of home again

Old men’s backs broken by bundling donkey loads

From drought relief sorghum brewing livication after livication to the
guidance

Of those who instead of bondage chose to create a permanent state of semi
silence

Dedicated from birth on the revolutions shrine to tear down the heavens

Shy bespectacled book dreamers now living in a haze of petrol bombs

 

Anesu Katerere –Anesu Katerere's Profile Photo, No automatic alt text available. journalist , Slam Poet , published writer and media activist, spearheading the Marovadombo Community Radio and library initiative in Nyanga, Eastern Highlands,marovadombo.blogspot.de/

 

The Publisher MiomboPublishing is founded by Mbizo Chirasha- a Creative Communities Expert, Writer , Published Poet and Literary Arts Specialist.

2017 Miombo PeNmAGic House of Fame !


MIOMBO PEN MAGICImage may contain: 1 person– In this year of great creativity , political tussles , hustles and bustles around Africa and beyond . MiomboPublishing our humble poetry , profiling and story journals has outgrown itself  into   a popular journal  and boasts of profiling and featuring high rising literary arts voices in Zimbabwe , Africa and abroad . The journal is a playing  a big role in both familiarizing the art of writing from both women and men of words . Miombo has decided  this  time to create blog journals  of women writers who have  been highly participating , contributing and greatly featured from 2016 to 2017. We have come up with three prolific young women writers inclusive of Tsitsi Tsopotsa, Munia Khan and Catherine Magodo Mutukwa. Tsitsi Tsopotsa is a Zimbabwean creative arts entrepreneur based in the United Kingdom, While Munia Khan is an internationally and widely anthologized poet from Bangladesh and Catherine Magodo Mutukwa is a Zimbabwean creative feminist and storyteller based in South Africa. In this House of Fame Journal , we feature their previous articles that featured and liked prominently on our social media platforms. This important and inspiring journal will also linked to several twitter handles , Facebook groups , pages and profiles , LinkedIn and World Pulse for the purposes of inspiring young writers , creative and poets as well as familiarizing the literary arts brands of the featured talents.
Follow miombopublishing group on Facebook , send comments on our journals , follow and like our journal . You can also send queries and written articles to miombopublishing@gmail.com or you can inbox the Publisher , Mbizo Chirasha on Facebook.

TsopotsA -first Zimbabwean Writer to make a Book Trailer!

Tsitsi TsopotsaImage result for tsitsi tsopotsa

  is a force to reckon in the literary arts industry and she has become an inspiration to many . She dives into romance , fable like stories then dives back into comedy and satire. Her most popular stories include the Diary of the USAH and The Zebra Crossings . These are all Zimbabwean stories though they may differ in time setting and even place setting. Tsitsi has become a global writer/ storyteller who tells the Zimbabwean story in the global arena. Tsopotsa has proved that she is truly a creative force by winning a prestigious award late 2016 with BAWR for her story ,Diary of the USAH. The mesmerizing author has been featured in several blogs , sites and airwaves .Her profiles have been published in various websites and newspapers. The Writer , Social Entrepreneur , Cultural Activist and Creative Artist ENJOYS both African and International recognition. Her endevours can be tapped by the growing generations of Young writers. She is following up the footsteps of FEMRITE , WRITIVISM, STORYMOJA and other Organisations through her strong , creative and artistic voluntary mentor ship organisation Setseno which is also a publishing organisation. Underneath is the record , files , posts and mentions of the good and inspiring writings / works of Tsopotsa past and present.

The Zebra Crossings by Tsitsi Tsopotsa can be found and purchased at Amazon.COM

The Zebra Crossings (Paperback): Tsitsi Tsopotsa

The Zebra Crossings (Paperback): Tsitsi Tsopotsa

In the 1970s, somewhere in the rural areas of Rhodesia, a young man and woman fall in love. An unremarkable occurrence one might think- except Rob Du Toit is of affluent stock, and Rudo derives from a struggling family. They are living in a country in transition, but that fact does little to help their cause. Their path to happiness is a minefield of hurdles and prejudices that only intensify as time progresses. This is a tender story written with heartfelt feeling, a book that you will want to read from beginning to end.

Diary of a USAH: The Zimbabwe US Dollar by [Tsopotsa, Tsitsi]

Diary of a USAH: The Zimbabwe US Dollar by [Tsopotsa, Tsitsi]

Diary of a USAH – The Zimbabwe US Dollar is a comedy-satire short story about Zimbabwe’s currency situation conceived and written by Tsitsi Tsopotsa.

The story depicts a mythical journey of a United States Dollar Note through various hands and scenarios. The setting is present day Zimbabwe where many different currencies replaced the Zimbabwe dollar following its collapse.

The cover was painted by Barry Lungu.

This ebookis the first product from Setseno which will soon be selling short stories from developing countries. Setseno works with writers to develop their skills and encourages collaboration with artists so that together they can raise their profiles to sell their work to wider audiences in the rest of the world.

Part of the proceeds from this ebook sale will go towards supporting Setseno programmes including the mentoring programme. The mentor programme will launch by supporting writers in Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya, Uganda and Nigeria.

Please follow our progress on Facebook, like our page and of course please also leave a review for this book.

It is proof beyond the shadow of clear doubt that these works continue inspire the young and growing generation of writers in Zimbabwe , Africa and around the globe.

 

Metaphors of my mother!- Catherine Magodo Mutukwa.

Catherine Magodo- Mutukwa

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is an astounding pen mover. Here she writes to a diverse community of the feminine race , activists , feminists ,peasants and poets/writers. She whispers he husky, metaphoric lyrics in the ears of their minds. She carries her poetic torch without fear; she wields the metaphoric fumigating gun with bravery. Magodo Mutukwa reminds us of the late legendary Chenjerai Hove, her poetry vibrates the soul and all in all evokes memories of great poets like Maya Angelou ,the late Yvonne Vera and the great pen pusher and wordslanger American Nikki Giovanni. Enjoy the metaphors for our mothers by Cathy Magodo Mutukwa , a South African based Zimbabwean Creativity Feminist, Writer and Poet.

To Us (Women)

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again
To us women! who refuse to be refused
Standing our ground and speaking
our minds,
no more pulling our
hair in anger
or speaking in silence
Something has changed,
I’m not talking about the change of seasons

or the turning of leaves here
We had to break in order to grow
now, as we stand today
all lessons learnt, tall and proud
let us not forget,
that to get here
we had to pass through that place between

nowcrhere and somewhere just before we hit

rock bottom,
The many mountains heavy on our heads,

we had to balance lest they bury us alive but

we survived
The words and not songs taught us the true

meaning of strong, resilience and patience,
Let us remember to remember,
all the women who had to be…then
so that we can be… today,
their dreams which live through us,
their vision that didn’t dry up together with

their tired bones…
Daughters, sisters and mothers…we’ve come a long way,
Define yourselves before they define you!
Be bold, be proud.

 

Restless Song Within Me

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Image result for a group of poor women in Africa, image

Allow me to sit and catch my breath
the tune in my heart played from
strings that pull and contract,
heavy with
veins boiling with hot blood of a long
line of women yelling
Strong!

“Lend us your ears, they insist, listen!”

The song, this song- they taught me
a long time ago, the words I forgot
though it lingered somewhere in my
being and its roots long made my
soul its home, memory omitted it
the waves life brought made me
doubt
the legacy of my mother and all the
other women before her

Allow me to hold my head in shame
as their voices made one voice
resonates within me
I’m no ordinary person, I am a woman
whose boundaries were erased paving
the way for anything to be possible
only if i believe…

Let me stand before you
celebrating unapologetic womanhood
and dance to US…a new breed who dare dare nots.

 

He’s No More.

Image result for death of african graduate in africa image

Image result for death of african graduate in africa image

He died mother,
In the infancy of his
adulthood
Alone and alienated
intellectually stuffed not starved
Even the years of schooling couldn’t
save him from himself
He was a mad(e) man in an unforgiving

shell of a body
Ah mother,
Him the product of your labor pains
has amounted to nothing except
for fattening the maggots that bore through

his mortal remains once home to pride,
They got him mother, right between the ears

with bullets of edification propelled by years

of missionary education,
Ah mother, he’s no more…

Breathing Through Writing.

Image result for  black girl holding vuvuzela image

Image result for black girl holding vuvuzela image

Then I began writing about

those, whose voices had been
stilled but not quietened
Searching for inspiration in the
web of influences ‘they’ tattooed
on the back of black history
I was like a child without a
mother longing for one
tracing the footprints engraved
in the valley of hope
The muzzle was off now, the one
that strangled and silenced
I could speak!
I the voice of many voices trapped
in one, ancient but not forgotten
then, I breathed life into my words
they weren’t only black letters,
dancing on white paper now but a
story still to be told…

 

Amai (Mother)

Image result for pregnant african mother

Image result for pregnant african mother

There are things this heart can’t express and
the mind can’t compress
There are the things unsaid, the wind can’t
repeat

Yet,like the rush of a gushing river, I need to
pour it out,
turn my insides out for all to see, that I’m hollow
that I’m lost,
that I too died the day you left even though my
heart still beats.

Amai, how I wish you were here,
It’s been several years, couple of months, still
counting the days,
They told me grown men don’t shed tears but
I weep because of my sorrow realizing nothing
will ever be the same.

I mourn your loss each time I think of you while
fighting battles nobody knows about,
I close myself off from being loved for fear of
being left alone again and the world crumbles
around me.

I’m consumed by this storm raging inside me
that sometimes I forget what it feels like to feel
when silence ensues
I don’t mean to be unhappy but I feel your absence
in the depth of my soul,
I guess what they say is true, you will never realize
the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

Mother, if I could have one more day with you
I would tell you all about it,
I have a feeling you would know exactly what
to say
and you would gather me up in your arms and put back
together my broken pieces.

 

words
they weren’t only black letters,
dancing on white paper now but a
story still to be told…

Amai (Mother)

Image result for pregnant african mother

There are things this heart can’t express and
the mind can’t compress
There are the things unsaid, the wind can’t
repeat

Yet,like the rush of a gushing river, I need to
pour it out,
turn my insides out for all to see, that I’m hollow
that I’m lost,
that I too died the day you left even though my
heart still beats.

Amai, how I wish you were here,
It’s been several years, couple of months, still
counting the days,
They told me grown men don’t shed tears but
I weep because of my sorrow realizing nothing
will ever be the same.

I mourn your loss each time I think of you while
fighting battles nobody knows about,
I close myself off from being loved for fear of
being left alone again and the world crumbles
around me.

I’m consumed by this storm raging inside me
that sometimes I forget what it feels like to feel
when silence ensues
I don’t mean to be unhappy but I feel your absence
in the depth of my soul,
I guess what they say is true, you will never realize
the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

Mother, if I could have one more day with you
I would tell you all about it,
I have a feeling you would know exactly what
to say
and you would gather me up in your arms and put back
together my broken pieces.

 

 

 

Still Remains – a short story by Munia Khan!

Munia Khan


We are interested in the way MP is creating more interest in our readers and contributors around the world .Ours is a humble blog journal that begun with poetry from young Zimbabweans into poetry contributed by much experienced and acclaimed poets in the global literary arts scene.This month we publish short stories by such powerful star rising voices of Catherine Magodo Mutukwa– a Zimbabwean Writer and Poet and Munia Khan an acclaimed and much published Writer. Still Remains is a family story by Munia Khan that was recently published by one international literary journal. MP is highly honored to be given the opportunity to publish this simple but captivating story.

 

Enjoy reading Still Remains by Munia Khan.

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It was, he sensed, one of those fairly cool October evenings in England, when his father used to read him story books while his mother was preparing supper. Now dozing in the rocking chair, he felt the little robin family residing next to the tree near his balcony needed to go to sleep. Every evening the light coming from the neighborhood tennis court made him so vigorously alive. He had been sitting here for the last hour enjoying how the dusk was falling so rapidly only to be conquered by the night. David Ashcroft, a retired man of 67 summers had been a lover of twilight throughout his life. Now his life seemed to have reached its own twilight. Sarah Ashcroft, his beloved wife still dazzled his life with the twinkles of her blue eyes, as if she would remain the brightest star of his life forever.

She was in the kitchen preparing dinner when David realized that these days he was more in love with living in the past than spending time with Sarah. Specially, through his mind he loved to roam around his early childhood days. From one moment to another his memory loved to step back only to rediscover the past. In his mind, today, several times he was in the literature class of 9th grade at high school when he won the writing contest defeating his best friend ‘Fox Jim’. He laughed alone thinking about those fun filled days. He used to call his buddy James Dodd ‘Fox Jim’, as he was the cleverest boy in town, David believed. He couldn’t help laughing recalling how Fox Jim, at age 8, taught him how to blow smoke rings with the stolen cigarette from Jim’s father’s drawer.

Suddenly his mind’s journey to his childhood days was interrupted by the most familiar voice in the world asking him- “Dave, aren’t you hungry, darling?”

“Yes, I am sweetheart” he replied to his wife with a fragile smile on his chain smoking lips.

Sarah came closer. “I know, you’d love the lamb chops I’ve cooked tonight. I tried a new recipe”, she said about the chops that David brought from the store this morning as she was rubbing her oily hands with the kitchen towel.

“Lamb? When did you buy lamb chops?” David asked surprisingly as he remembered it had been ages since they bought lamb chops last.

“Just this morning you bought it, remember?, ” Sarah replied winking her left eye to give David the impression that she knew he had a naughty tendency to tease her sometimes by asking strange questions.

“What do you mean? When did I go out today? ” David asked raising his eyebrows, and his blood pressure. “ I never went to the store today,” he confirmed with a shaking fearful voice.

“Oh! Come on, dearest! Stop joking. I’m not in the mood. I’m too hungry to cope with your puzzling joke now,” said Sarah.

“Let’s have dinner” she said sitting on a 37 year old wooden chair which carried memories from their wedding night.

David felt his sinking heart when he said, “No, I am not jesting! What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious that you cannot remember you went out this morning”, Sarah asked in a shrewd way as if she was an attorney cross-examining a mugger who stole her husband’s wallet few hours ago.

“No! Honey, Trust me!! I cannot recall anything. I cannot tell where I was this morning.” David’s voice was at a loss as to what more to say.

He tried to ransack his memory and all he found was he and his father buying a brand new bicycle on his birthday fifty nine years ago.

“Okay. I understand. Now let’s eat; I don’t want to talk about it” said Sarah. She was in a very sad state of mind and her hunger for food was consumed by her hunger for knowing the mystery of how this morning could become a forgotten time to her husband who had been blessed by a sharp memory throughout his life.

They finished the dinner exchanging unspoken words through their reluctant eyes. David went to watch the highlights of England vs. South Africa, a cricket match on Fox Sports. It was around 9 pm. He didn’t know that he had already watched this match LIVE last night. He felt frustrated not understanding why he missed the match. He’d never missed a ‘Live’ game before.

Sarah cleaned the dishes unmindfully. As the night grew deeper, the sky of her mind became overcast by gray clouds of worries. After watching TV David brushed his teeth two times in one hour before going to bed, knowing he did it only once. They went to bed wordless that night covering themselves in the mild autumnal coolness.

That night Sarah couldn’t sleep a wink; slumber land was a forbidden place for her. Oddly enough, she tried to count stars, staring at the ceiling.

Next morning, the first thing David thought he should do was to brush his teeth as he realized that he did forget to brush his teeth last night. After being refreshed, he started to look for their pet Ruth all over the house forgetting she died last week and he was the one who buried her near river Dart. Sarah was still asleep. He prepared porridge for himself and had finished it before she woke up. He fried eggs, mushrooms and made some grilled oatcakes for Sarah as he knew from decades ago how she loved grilled oatcakes with a mug of tea for breakfast. While preparing the meal, he added salt several times, believing he sprinkled it only once.

And when Sarah woke up that morning, she was surprised that David made her breakfast after such a long time. She didn’t like oatcakes anymore and she was quite certain that David knew it . It saddened her even more understanding that David must have forgotten that too.

Sarah was completely mystified by the realization that something was wrong with her husband. She began to worry visualizing him as a patient with amnesia.

After spending a frozen night of silence with David, the next morning she decided to make an appointment with Dr. Bruce Miles, their family physician. It was a sunny day full of life just exactly how David liked it to be. He spent most of the morning with some memories of his past, looking vacantly at the typical South West English clouds floating across the blue sky. Then he went to the backyard in search of the lawnmower, not knowing why he wanted it. Suddenly he remembered the day when he first came to live in this house at Devon 25 years ago after selling their old house at Essex. He felt it was just yesterday when Sarah gave birth to their only child, Alice, here in Devon. He failed to recall where Alice lived now. His mind was all buried in the long lost past; trapped in the cobweb of numerous incidents.

He went upstairs and found Sarah was in the bathroom taking shower. He knocked the door asking her, “Did I have my breakfast today? I feel hungry.”

“Yes, you did, Dave” Sarah replied in an anxious tone while water ran down her body trying to rinse all her anxieties away. She knew David had already forgotten that today was the doctor’s appointment and all the reports would be delivered after the diagnosis.

Sarah went down stairs after shower and found David reading the newspaper from 3 days ago. She exclaimed in frustration, “You’ve read it seven times so far! Can you remember?”

“This is the first time I’m reading this, sweetheart”, replied David. “Don’t be so mean to me, please!” he said as if a child so annoyed on his mother for her unjust accusations.

Later that day David was getting ready to go out with Sarah. He went in front of the mirror to comb his hair and surprisingly discovered that his hair had already been combed. In his forgetfulness he wondered who combed his hair…when?…and how? Staring at his own reflection, he was suddenly lost in a queer contemplation. The colour of his shirt reminded him of the navy blue shade from his leather bound diary that he used to write in during his college days. He felt the need of finding that diary again.

That day Sarah took him to Dr. Miles who confirmed David was a patient in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease saying, “Mr. Ashcroft, I know you won’t be able to remember this, but I’m sorry to say you are having progressive mental deterioration, which is the most common cause of premature senility.”

David couldn’t believe this initially, looking straight into the doctor’s eyes. He had never been aware of his memory that much because of his confidence in his brain’s excellent quality of recollection throughout his life. After a while he looked away, turning a blind eye to the doctor’s melancholic face because, during that moment, David wanted to feel nothing but the glorious sun from his school days, constantly shining on his aging mind: a mind that can no more form a new memory.

There was a little teardrop glistening at the corner of Sarah’s eye like a pearl, which needed to be hidden because of its preciousness. She tried to conceal her tears by looking down on the diagnosis reports, pretending to read them; and her misty eyes with blurred vision couldn’t afford to read a single line.

Dr. Miles kept on explaining the reasons why David had encountered such a disease long before he turned seventy. Sarah’s ears seemed to be deafened by an unknown chaos from her overstressed mind. The only cause the doctor explained that she could hear was David’s excessive passion for smoking cigarettes.

Dr. Miles stated all the things that David should do from now on. David was perplexed. He kept forgetting why he even had to be in the doctor’s chamber.

They left the doctor’s office at around 4:15pm. Sarah was driving their 18 year old black Jaguar, which perhaps bore more loving memories than she could ever create. David appeared to be very naive as he kept on asking her the same questions so many times. “Where have we been, Sarah?” …“Where are you driving to?”

“We went to visit Dr. Bruce Miles, sweetheart!” Sarah replied for the third time.

Sarah’s eternal love for David was stronger than her patience. And her love became remarkably forbearing in time, which made her respond to his repeatedly asking questions many times.

She never failed him. She believed- I never will.

Right now life seemed utterly obstructive to her. At the moment she wanted to concentrate only on driving, forgetting the world. The sun was going to sink very soon while David’s favourite twilight began to appear. Sarah noticed some beautiful birds going back to their nests flying towards the crimson west; just like she and David were returning to their home. That made her smile.

Suddenly she heard her beloved asking, “Where have we been, Sarah?”

“We went to visit Dr. Bruce Miles, sweetheart!” she replied with all her loving heart.

Munia Khan

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was born on a spring night of 15th March in the year 1981. She enjoys her journey to the literary world. Most of her works are poems of different genres.She is the author of three poetry collections : ‘Beyond The Vernal Mind’ (Published by Xlibris Corporation, USA in 2012) ‘To Evince The Blue’ (Published by Xlibris Corporation, USA in 2014)and ‘Versified’ (Published by Tiktakti Publishing Company, ISRAEL in 2016). Her poetry is the reflection of her own life experience.Her works have been translated into various languages: Japanese, Romanian, Urdu, Spanish, Bengali and Irish.

The Journal is  authored  and published by Mbizo Chirasha.Mbizo is the Publisher of several WordPress blogJournals , Writer , widelypublished poet  and Creative Communities Expert , follow Mbizo Chirasha  on the following link ,https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha.